Crossed Paths, Crossed Blades
by Kwaj
Summary: A knight of Gondor. A Rider of Rohan. A soldier of Harad. An Orc of Mordor. On the fields of Pelennor their lives will cross...as will their swords.
1. Chapter 1: Enter the Players

A/N: Well, here we are: my first LotR story. I am actually (like most reading this) a HUGE LotR geek. I was in New Zealand sightseeing the film locations the week before Return of the King came out, for Manwë's sake. Anyway, despite the depths of my adoration of Tolkien's saga, I've never actually attempted to write fanfiction for it. So here goes…a short (two, three, or four chapters, max) view of the Battle of the Pelennor from the points of view of soldiers from each of the four armies (I excluded the Dead Men of Dunharrow because they don't come in until the end and aren't at Minas Tirith at all in the book and because I wanted it to be about the soldiers in each army. An undead, eternally tormented being would thrown everything off.

This one is dedicated to CassieReaganMoore.

Chapter One: Enter the Players

"Men of Gondor!"

Artharion stood at the forefront of his command, shouting to be heard above the sounds of the battle beyond. They were positioned by the gate separating the First Circle of Minas Tirith's mighty walls from the Second. The Orcs, they knew, had broken through the Great Gates. They were in the City. After more than three thousand years, the Enemy had finally broken through the defenses of the White City. What was there now, save death and destruction?

Artharion surveyed his men, a small contingent of soldiers ordered by Mithrandir to hold the Second Circle gates for as long as possible. They were disorganized, confused, tired. But what Artharion saw on their faces that most deeply affected him was none of these. It was fear. The Enemy's greatest weapon.

The sounds of battle were growing louder now, closer. A steady flow of wounded soldiers had been carried past the sentinels during the long hours of battle, but now no more injured or dying soldiers struggled past them through the gates. There were no more, Artharion knew. Those who were mortally injured were killed, those who lived fought on. The fight had entered the City, and the gates were shut.

Artharion turned to his men. He looked terrible, he knew. His long, dark hair was matted and tangled, blood and sweat mingled on his brow, and his face was drawn and haggard. Yet as he spoke to his men, torchlight danced along the blade of his sword and in his eyes, and the defenders of Gondor felt the spark of courage inside them ignite.

"Men of Gondor! We stand now in the First Circle of Minas Tirith. On the plains beyond marches an army of Orcs. Above us the sounds of battle ring. And even now our foes march at us! Now, for the White Tree, for the Steward, for your families and your people, stand and fight!"

With that, Artharion turned and rushed at the approaching Orcs, sword held high.

--

Léofric gritted his teeth and dug his stirrups into the sides of Déorwine, his steed, urging the chestnut stallion to ride harder and faster. The young Rohirrim rode at the forefront of the army of King Théoden, charging alongside the vanguard of the Lord of the Mark. To his right rode Ardhelm, his kinsman and boon companion. Ahead of them, galloping at full speed, was the Lord Théoden, who looked as though he were a young king again as he charged his enemy. A little further ahead, massed in frightening strength, waited the hosts of the Enemy.

Léofric had fought at Helm's Deep, both on the parapets of the Deeping Wall and in the defense of the Hornburg. He had proved his prowess in battle on that terrible day. He had slain two Uruks and injured a third. The first was killed by a shaft from Léofric's bow, the second he had pushed off the ramparts of the Deeping. The third, the one he had wounded, had nearly killed him. He had stabbed it, driving his knife deep into its arm. But it ignored the wound, and brought its blade down upon his head. That was the last thing he remembered. He awoke later to find a bearded old man clothed in purest white standing over him, smiling sadly. This, he had dimly remembered, was the one they called Gandalf.

Though he bore a thick scar upon his forehead from where the Orc-blade had struck him, it was not the worst of the injuries Léofric received that day. His father had died as the Rohirrim were in the arms of victory, pierced by an Orc-pike. The loss was devastating to young Léofric, leaving him the head of his small family -a family his duty called him to leave behind as he rode with the armies of Rohan to Gondor's aid.

As the distance between the armies of Rohan and Mordor rapidly lessened, Léofric unsheathed his father's sword, Isenlof. The dawn sunlight glinted off the steel of the blades of the Rohirrim as a wind blew from the West. Then the men of the Riddermark met the army of the Enemy, and chaos reigned.

--

Haytham's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, an old saber that had belonged to his uncle Khalid. His uncle was now dead, having been ambushed in a raid by the Rangers of the country of Gondor. Khalid's body had not been recovered, and now the only things the young Southron owned of his uncle's were his curved saber and a small bone pendant which he now wore about his neck.

Haytham was a young Southron, barely a man, and had not yet been in a battle. Now he marched with the army of Ghâlib the Red, a great Southron conqueror. His uncle Khalid had been a great soldier. He had marched against the armies of both Gondor and several rival Haradrim tribes, and had mentored Haytham for the entirety of the young man's life. He had taught him to hunt and how best to survive in the harsh southern wastes, how to hunt, and, on this journey, how to fight.

The saber was unwieldy in Haytham's hand, heavier than what he was used to. He had never so much as raised a weapon against another, but while sparring with his uncle he was more comfortable with his hunting spear or even a bow than with the heavy, awkward sword.

Yet he would not throw this blade away. Metal was expensive in the lands of the South, and the saber was an old heirloom of Haytham's family. But neither of these was the reason he now wielded the blade.

He kept it because his uncle had been like a father to him, and a love of that depth deserved to be honored. The desert wastes of the South were a harsh land that left its people no room for moral shades of gray. Kindness was rewarded. Cruelty was punished. Good deeds were repaid. Wrongs were avenged.

Love was honored.

Haytham blinked, both from the light of the rising sun and the tears that threatened to escape his eyes. In this distance he heard the clashing of steel, the shouts of rage and pain. The battle would come to him soon.

He gazed at the morning sunlight reflected off his blade, then raised his eyes to the heavens.

_Uncle,_ he thought, _I hope you are watching, for I may join you soon. If I die here upon this field, I wish to die without shame, for I will not enter your halls as a coward. Please, o beloved uncle…guide my blade._

--

Gorlâk stabbed his blade deep into the dying horse-rider, then turned to find new foes. The clang of steel, the dying screams of Men and Orcs was to his ears what music was to the Elves. The stench of battle! The scent of blood filled his nostrils, filling him with a maddening urge to rip, to bite, to _kill_…

The rider let out his dying scream, and the Orc grinned, savage teeth filling his terrifying smile. Pain was the Orcs' life. they were born to it, raised to it, died by it. It defined their existence. Their only motivation was pain: to avoid it, to withstand it, and, most of all, to inflict it on others.

Misery loves company.

Gorlâk spotted a new opponent, and his hideous smile widened. Howling a wordless Orc battle-cry, he leapt into battle.

--

Well? What do you guys think? Good? Bad? Clichéd? Otherwise? R&R, people!! Reviews will be appreciated. Just no flames. If you hated it, at least be constructive about it.


	2. Chapter 2: Son of the South

Well, I'm back

Well, I'm back. Some minor changes: while this fic will still be pretty short, each individual chapter from here on out (except the last) will center around one of the four characters originally introduced. Also, unless something unexpected happens, there should end up being a grand total of six chapters to this story: one for the intro, one for each of the four characters, and a closing chapter.

This chapter seems to be a bit longer, and is Haytham-centric. He has surprised me…he started as just some random Southron, but then I decided to make him young…and he kinda developed into an actual character. So…hope you guys enjoy!

NOTE: This is totally unrelated, but I do in fact take requests. Just nothing slash. Ever.

Chapter Two: Son of the South

Haytham remembered the first time he had gone hunting. His uncle, of course, had taken him. He remembered crouching behind sand dunes, the harsh desert sunlight fading with the evening. They had hidden there behind the dunes, waiting for the nocturnal creatures of the southern wastes to emerge in the twilight from their hidden burrows. Foreigners who looked upon the vast sand desert thought it desolate and uninhabitable, but those who lived within its borders knew otherwise. Though barren during the day, the desert at night was full of life. Small birds, foxes, and desert hares emerged from their daytime hideaways to hunt food. The people of Harad, just as resourceful as their animal kin, spent their days resting in their cool tents, emerging at dusk to hunt what small game they could find upon the dunes.

Khalid had shown his nephew how to bury himself in the dunes to keep still, how to listen, with his ear pressed to the sands, for the telltale heartbeat of animals hidden in their burrows, how to aim a spear to kill prey with a single, clean thrust. He had smiled when Haytham, then a young boy, had killed his first fox. His face had been hidden by the headscarf he wore to protect him from the desert heat and blowing sands, but the smile could still be seen in his dark eyes.

"A good, clean kill," he had said, pride in his voice. He held up the fox, showing it to the other men on the hunt. The other hunters agreed that it was a good kill, and looked on him with the pride of men who know that the young boy among them would soon join them in manhood. But none could match the pride in Khalid's voice or his eyes.

Khalid had told his nephew, years later, as they traveled with the army of Ghâlib the Red, that fighting would be just as easy as hunting.

"The fox has a heart. Men have hearts. Stabbing a man is just as easy as stabbing a fox."

"But, uncle," Haytham, still young but no longer a mere boy, had interrupted, "it is not the same. The fox can only run. A man will fight. And a man is not like a rabbit. Men can think. We have hearts, we have feelings. Animals have none of these."

"No," Khalid shook his head, "the fox will fight back. So will the man. And as for thoughts and feelings, the fox has as many as a man does. If you can kill a fox, you can kill a man."

"But the fox is killed for food. The man is killed for what? Because another man wants him dead?"

"No," Khalid said sadly, "that is not the reason he is killed. There is no reason to a man's killing, except that you must kill him or he will kill you. It is just like hunting. You must kill the fox, or you will die of hunger. You must kill the man, or you will die by his blade."

It was nothing like killing a fox. Haytham fought now against a Northman with a long scar on his cheek and shaggy gray hair flowing from beneath his helm. His grizzled face and the scars it bore told of his feats in battle far better than any bard could. The man was older, slower in his movements, but a more experienced swordsman. Haytham had the quickness of youth on his side, but precious little else. The saber still felt awkward and heavy in his hand, and he struggled to parry the blows of his opponent. He knew that it was only a few moments before he would succumb to the Northman's attack.

No, it was not a bit like hunting. Hunting was simple, easy. Once the prey was found, a single, skilled blow could kill it swiftly. A hunt was conducted in almost complete silence. War...on the battlefield, all was noise, chaos, and the foul stench of blood.

Nor was killing so easy. Haytham barely dodged a blow to his shoulder, and retaliated with a thrust at his opponent's side. The older Northman countered, panting, the sweat on his brow mixing with small cuts and the grime of battle.

The Northman swung his blade over his head, then brought it down upon Haytham. The young Southron raised his own sword to block, but the force of the blow brought him to the ground. The Northman raised his sword in both hands, preparing to give the killing blow. Haytham looked up at the Horse-rider, eyes alight with fear. It was not supposed to have been like this…

Haytham was not sure what happened next. As the Northman brought his sword down for the final blow, Haytham, by wild, terrified instinct brought up his own.

The Northman's sword fell from his hand as he gasped with pain, impaled on Haytham's saber. He tried to stand, stumbled, and fell to the dirt, mud mixing with the blood that had begun to pour from between his lips.

Haytham stood shakily, and knelt by the dying Northman. The man's blue eyes sought Haytham's dark ones, their depths filled with fear and disbelief. He reached a hand out to Haytham weakly, pleadingly. Haytham looked away helplessly, avoiding the dying man's eyes.. He had not meant to kill this man. It had been an accident. Hadn't it?

The man let out a strange gurgling noise, as he tried to speak. The harshness of the sound brought Haytham to his senses. He took the dying man's hand, held it in his own. He met the man's eyes, and in them he saw all the fear and sorrow and rage of war that he felt in himself. He held the dying man's hand and his gaze until the life faded from the blue eyes.

Once he was sure the Northman had died, Haytham stood and numbly retrieved his saber from the man's body. He gazed at the blood covering the blade.

_Uncle,_ he thought, _What have I done?_


	3. Chapter 3: Man of the West

Chapter Three: Man of the West

Hey all, I'm back. Sorry I haven't updated in a while, I've been busy. Which is the default excuse, but this time it's true. But you aren't here to listen to me blather, dear reader, you're here to listen to a tale. So I give you…

Chapter Three: Man of the West

Artharion had never said goodbye to his father. The thought galled him, and made him feel no small amount of shame, but now was not the time to think of such things. Now was the time for battle and death, and to have his thoughts turned elsewhere could made a warrior sloppy, perhaps fatally so. Artharion knew this better than most.

As he and his men rounded a corner, they nearly collided with a band of Orcs charging from the opposite direction. Both sides recovered from their momentary confusion, and then steel crashed against steel.

Artharion dodged a blow from an Orc-mace and countered with a sword-thrust. His blade pierced through a weak point in the shoulder of the Orc's mail, and the creature went down with a sound halfway between snarl and scream. Artharion brought his sword down for the killing blow, and the Orc's screams ended abruptly.

Artharion took no joy in killing. He had wanted to be scholar, to research ancient lore and forgotten tales deep within the walls of Minas Tirith's renowned library. But his father would hear none of it. The eldest son of the family had served as a knight of Gondor for generations out of mind, and the tradition would not be broken.

Artharion parried an Orc-sword with his shield, and responded with a blow from Túrrív, his sword. It had passed down through his family from time out of memory, and was now his. It was a beautiful blade, wrought from fine steel and inlaid with Elven runes:

Im Túrrív, tolog Glosminas.

I am the Edge of Victory, stalwart of the White Tower.

The ancestral blade struck true, cleaving the Orc's head from its shoulders. Despite his reluctance to take up the arms of the warrior, Artharion had proven himself to be a surprisingly able swordsman. He had killed many of the foul creatures of Mordor in his lifetime, and had risen to a position of renown amongst the defenders of the White City.

He was no longer a young man, and had taken a wife more than a few winters ago. Halvwen was beautiful, a proud and fair lady of Dol Amroth, and he loved her dearly. She returned his love in equal measure, and they had lived together happily. She had borne him four children; three sons and a daughter. The eldest, Caundaer, was now a man, and had joined the Knights of Gondor like his father, and his father before him. It had been his own decision -Artharion had not wanted to force knighthood upon his son as it had been forced upon him, but Caundaer had long desired to perform brave feats on the field of battle.

Though still hale, Artharion had begun to tire of his service in Gondor's army. He longed to settle down with his wife to raise their children in peace, but the world had grown dark. Artharion had sworn an oath of fealty to the empty throne of Gondor, and would uphold his duty until death. All else came second -even his family.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, and the blood from his blade. The group of Orcs they had run into had been driven off. Seven Orcs and three Gondorians lay bleeding on the ground. The Orcs were already dead, the Men moaned in agony and pleaded for help. But no healers remained in the streets to carry the wounded to safety. All was fire and chaos and death, the ringing of steel on steel. Those not too seriously injured to keep fighting were quickly bandaged and pressed forward towards their waiting foes, their pale faces stern and grim, the cold steel of their blades naked in their hands.

Artharion's departure from his family had been hurried. He had kissed his wife and daughter goodbye, embraced his two younger sons, and left with Caundaer to defend the ramparts of the White City. Where his eldest son was now, he knew not. They had been separated during the battle, and Artharion had joined the men Mithrandir had ordered to hold the Second Circle.

Now he and his men were cut off from the rest of their army. The remaining defenders held a gate on one of the higher levels. The fourth, maybe? There was no way to be sure. A horde of Orcs lay between Artharion's men and the other warriors of Gondor. From above came the hoarse battle-cries of the Orcs, accompanied by the terrible, inexorable bass beat of the Troll war-drums. Outside the gates could be heard the now-familiar sounds of battle: the clash of stell, the shouts and screams of the living and the dying alike.

"Artharion!"

This came from his second-in-command, Cammir. They had known each other since the early days of their service to the Steward, and had fought alongside one another for many years. They looked little alike; while Artharion was tall and dark-haired like many of the noble houses of Gondor, Cammir was stout and ginger-haired, and more scars lined his grizzled face than did Artharion's.

"What are we to do, Artharion?" he asked, dark eyes looking questioningly at his captain. "Some of the men argue that we should go to the upper levels, to try and find other survivors. Others say that to do so would be suicide, and we should instead head for Pelennor Fields, where we will at least have a fighting chance. What is your command?"

Artharion closed his eyes. He was tired. He was tired of war. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of being the leader, of bearing responsibility for the lives of his men. He wanted nothing more than to set aside his sword and stop fighting, to return to his home and his family. He wanted to lay in his wife's arms, to smell the sweet, flowery scent of her hair, to feel her soft skin…

He opened his eyes. His men looked at him, the weariness in their eyes and in their faces reflecting his own tired feelings. They too wanted nothing more than to give up this fight, to return safely to their loved ones and lay down the troubles and terrors of war. But they could not. They were men of Gondor, valiant and bold, and would follow their duty to their deaths.

Artharion was not born to be a leader, nor a warrior. He loved books and knowledge, not war and deeds of renown. But these men looked to him now, to be there leader, their captain and guardian. He had not wanted this responsibility; it had been thrust upon him, one more burden for him to bear. But he bore it nonetheless, as he had borne every challenge of his life.

He led these men because he had to.

Because there was no one else to lead them.

"We go to Pelennor Fields," he declared, his clear voice ringing into the early morning air. He strode towards the entrance to the First Circle, and to the battlefield beyond. His men followed, eyes shining in admiration. "The Rohirrim will have need of our sword-arms."

He led them because it was his duty.

--

**Aitra: **Glad you like it. Interesting indeed…

**Ellyn:** I think the best stories should have beginnings that intrigue you…thanks for the tip about the hyphens. I find Haytham to be an interesting individual. It's fun writing him.

**Sarahbarr17:** Thanks for the compliment. POV is now restricted to one individual per chapter…at least until the last chapter. Hugs to you, too.

**Calenlass Greenleaf1:** Sorry about the hurriedness, I couldn't think of much to put down for Gorlâk. I think the Orc is going to be the hardest to write for. And of course, I'm glad you like it!

**szepilona10: **First off, I want to say that I love how you end each review with "God Bless!" I'm glad you like it, and Haytham's story is only one part of this tragedy…

**Virtuella**: Thanks! I don't think Tolkien completely neglected the Haradrim, Sam does wonder about what made them fight the Gondorians; whether it was greed and hunger for conquest or the lies and conscription of tyrants. The point of this fic is not so much to display the ugliness of war as to display how similar all the human characters are, especially in contrast to the savagery of the Orcs (like Gorlâk). Another underlying theme is the bravery of soldiers fighting to protect those they love, without whom battles could never have been won. No, this is actually my second fanfic. First one for Lotr, though. And as for the PM thing, I'm adding it to my profile soon. Thanks for the suggestion!

**FireChildSlytherin5:** Thanks. Glad you think it's great, and there will be plenty more to come…


	4. Chapter 4: Rider of the North

Chapter Four: Rider of the North

A/N: Okay, first off I want to apologize to Ellyn, who liked the last chapter and hoped I would update soon if I wasn't too busy in the next few days. Unfortunately, I ended up being busy for the next few WEEKS. Sorry, but it wasn't anything I could help. As such, this chapter may not be as coherent as the last few, since I only worked on it in the spare minutes I found myself up to writing. Anyway, here's chapter four, I hope you like it.

Chapter Four: Rider of the North

Léofric swung his sword from astride Déorwine, bringing it down hard upon the unprotected head of an Orc. The foul thing crumpled to the ground, a bloody gash upon its forehead.

_Three kills to my name,_ thought Léofric with grim satisfaction. _I will become a warrior yet_.

A fearful roar caught Léofric's attention. A huge, towering Southron _Mumâk_, its war tower hanging haphazardly to one side, charged towards him, its eyes maddened with pain and rage. Déorwine let and a fearful whinny and reared back onto his hind legs. Léofric did his best to hang on, but was thrown from his mount, as Déorwine galloped away, terrified.

The titanic beast's footfalls shook the very earth under him as Léofric rolled out of the _Mumâk's_ path, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the monster. He stood, shaking slightly, as the enormous monster stomped away, leaving death in its wake.

When he had first set eyes upon them, Léofric had not believed that creatures so large could still exist. There were Trolls, yes; his people had long known of the ugly brutes, but the Oliphant's sheer size dwarfed that of any Hill-Troll. There were dragons, he had been told, but most had been killed a long, long time ago, and those wyrms that still lived hid beneath the earth and slumbered away the centuries, weary from long-forgotten battles of old, still healing old wounds. Yet these colossal beasts were so large as to dwarf any creature that still walked Middle-Earth.

There was a moment's lull in the battle as Léofric looked about, unsure of whether to retrieve his horse or to continue the fight on foot. No one noticed the lone, horseless Rider standing amidst a pile of bodies; some Rohirrim, some Orc, even a few Southrons.

Southrons…these too were unknown to Léofric until this day. The Men of the Mark knew their neighbors to the south, the proud kingdom of Gondor; they knew the savage Dunlendings who lived on the outskirts of the Riddermark. Elves they had heard rumor of; strange beings who walked through the woods at night, sometimes benevolent, sometimes mischievous, but always beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. So too had they heard of Dwarves; bearded men who lived in the mountains, digging gold and deep secrets out of the earth. But of the strange, dark men who lived in the barren wastes south of Gondor no tale was told and little was known, only that they were hard, fierce warriors whose hatred for the proud, free peoples of the north knew no bounds.

Léofric had not yet faced a Southron on the field of battle, and he hoped to avoid doing so. He was a valiant man, like his Eorling forefathers, and he feared no foe, but he did not look forward to killing another Man. To slay an Orc was a difficult task; the creatures were born and bred to war; but there was no shame or guilt in it. Orcs were vicious and barbaric, and had to be killed for the good of all. But these dark, mysterious Southrons were Men, despite their exotic appearance and their fealty to the Enemy, and to kill one would still be to kill another human being. If he faced one on the Pelennor today he would not shy from the fight, nor would he hesitate to kill his foe. But he would take neither satisfaction nor honor from the killing.

A band of Orcs, cut off from their company by the Rohirrim's charge and the ensuing chaos, appeared through the smoky veil of battle like wraiths in fog. Léofric turned to face them, sword and shield in hand, as he realized with a sinking feeling in his heart that there were too many of them to overcome on his own…

The Orcs charged, howling their fearsome war-cries. Léofric gritted his teeth, grim determination in his eyes, and steeled himself for bloodshed and death. The Orcs were nearly to him when a great grey stallion rode up beside him, a mail-clad Rider of Rohan astride the horse, his armor shining brilliantly in the morning light. The Orcs cowered in fear of the sight of the fell Rider and his steed, and fell back, none willing to be the first to fight such a deadly foe.

The Rider reached out his hand, and Léofric saw that it was his kinsman Ardhelm. It did his heart good to know that his friend still lived this battle. As he climbed onto the back of Greyhest, Ardhelm's steed, Léofric thought of his family.

He had fought at Helm's Deep in defense of his lord and land, and in the defense of his family: his mother, grey strands just beginning to show in her straw-colored hair; his brother, who wanted so badly to fight but was not yet strong enough to hold a blade; his sisters, who were too small to understand what was going on and could only huddle against their mother, whimpering with fright. His father had been lost that day, and he had been left the head of his family. There was no time for Léofric to properly mourn his father or to help rebuild his shattered family. Lord Théoden needed all the warriors he could muster, and Léofric was bound by duty and honor to obey the commands of his liege-lord.

And so he rode to battle the forces of evil at the ending of the world, without saying goodbye to his family.

A change in Greyhest's direction attracted Léofric's attention. There, galloping towards him on the battlefield, was his enemy. Not an Orc, but a Man, broad and dark-skinned, astride a mighty black stallion. He was garbed in the clothing of the Southron nomads, a serpent banner trailed from his horse, and he carried a mighty lance.

"Léofric! Ready your spear!" Ardhelm shouted, and Léofric did as his kinsman commanded. Ardhelm now grasped the reigns with only one hand; the other held his shield. The Southron horseman galloped towards them at full canter, lance readied and pointed towards the two Riders. The gap between the two horses lessened rapidly, the pounding hoof beats drowning out the sound of battle. To an observer it would have looked almost as a tournament joust, but the fell look in the eyes of the horsemen gave no doubt as to their deadly intentions.

They were only a few yards away from each other, now only a few feet. Then Léofric felt a jarring, violent impact as the Southron rider's lance made contact with Ardhelm's shield. Ardhelm himself was knocked off his horse, and went tumbling to the ground.

Léofric was not as skilled a Rider as his kinsman, but he wielded any weapon that fell into his hand with deadly skill. The Southron horseman carried no shield, and Léofric's spear-point dug itself deep into the man's gut, Greyhest's momentum forcing it in even further. The spear's haft snapped in two, and Léofric tossed the now-useless weapon away as he rode away, leaving his enemy mortally wounded.

_I felled the Serpent Rider_, thought Léofric_. So this is how it feels to kill another Man_. He felt no joy, only a sick, guilty feeling in his stomach.

He edged forward into the rider's saddle and brought Greyhest around, searching for Ardhelm. After a moment he spotted him crouched by the massive corpse of an Oliphant, a group of Orcs slowly enclosing him, jeering grins on their faces at the prospect of easy prey.

Léofric unsheathed Isenlof, his father's sword, and gazed at the morning sunlight reflected off the shining blade. The loss of his father had left a hole in his heart, a hole that needed time to heal. His already-wounded heart could not bear the loss of another loved one, and no one on the battlefield was closer to him than Ardhelm, his cousin and oldest friend. He had lost one family member already; he would not lose another this day. He would not.

So swearing to himself, he charged the Orcs with a grim smile on his face, sword held high.

--

Only two chapters to go…

--

**FireChildSlytherin5:** My plot is thick enough to taste? Maybe I should get some sweetener for it ;-). Jokes aside, I'm glad you're enjoying it.

**Virtuella:** I don't find Artharion quite as fascinating as the other characters, perhaps because Tolkien explored the "valiant Dunedain soldier who sacrifices of himself" a bit much in the books. Aragorn, Faramir, Beregond, Halbarad, etc. Thanks for the compliment on my writing style; people particularly seem to enjoy my narration. I do tend to over-describe sometimes, but that's because I have a very fixed idea of what's happening and I want to communicate that to the reader as best I can. Also, this story does attempt to vaguely mimic Tolkien's style, which is very heavy on the descriptive. You're right, though, it is largely a matter of preference.

**CalenlassGreenleaf1:** Ugh, the Orc chapter is next. Wish me luck with that. It did strike me as awkward to start so many paragraphs with "Artharion," but there was no real way around it. Using a general, vague noun like "the soldier" just seemed like too much of a cop-out. Sorry ;-).

**Ellyn:** I finally did update this, and I'm really sorry for the wait. Hopefully the next chapter will come more quickly, but no guarantees.

**szepilona10:** I finally updated, but none too soon. Only two chapters left…


	5. Chapter 5: Fiend of the East

A/N: So, sorry for the obscenely long absence. In my defense, I'm sure there are plenty of FF.N authors who have gone more than four months without updating. I've been wanting to work on this story for a while, but this -the "Orc Chapter"- has proved exceedingly difficult to write (being in Gorlâk's head makes me feel like I need to take a long shower). Plus, I've been ridiculously busy. Thankfully, now that I have some spare time, I can write this. Oh, and one last thing: I've started a new story, the first in a series called "Inkblots." If anyone would like to check it out (and possibly write a review ;-), that would be awesome!

WARNING: I tried not to make this too gruesome, but Orcs are evil, and I've conveyed that as best I could in this chapter. As a result, this chapter is both more violent and substantially darker in tone. Proceed with caution.

--

Chapter Four: Fiend of the East

Blood!

It sprayed like a geyser from the Man's neck as Gorlâk's blade slid across his throat, red orbs sent spinning through the air like raindrops. Gorlâk watched as the dying Man slumped to the ground, his blood mingling with the grime of the battlefield.

Blood and filth. The two constants of an Orc's life. Into filth the foul race was born, in blood it lived, and in both it died. Gorlâk had thought of this often, in the rare moments he was not preoccupied with thoughts of pain and battle-lust. The fairer races, the accursed Elves and their pet Men, were fixated on things which they thought pleasing to the eye. Obsessed, even. While they sat in their warm manors composing verses and singing of worthless things, Gorlâk's entire life had been a struggle to survive, to hack and kill and betray his way into power.

_This_ was how the world worked. The strong survived, while the weak were destroyed. The petty sentiments of the other races, their endless prattle about "morality," was worthless. There were no such things as good and evil, Gorlâk knew. There was only power. Those who had the strength and ambition to gain power would survive. Those too weak to seek it could only perish.

Gorlâk pulled his knife away from the throat of the Man he had slain, running his tongue along the blade. He cut himself, and his blood mixed with that of the Man's. The scent of it filled his nostrils, and his vision went red with battle-lust. He howled his battle-cry and ran off, searching for a fresh victim.

Not far from him were two Men, partially sheltered from the battle by the corpse of a huge Mûmak, one of the titanic war-beasts of the dark-skinned Men who served the Great Eye as willing slaves. Though Gorlâk feared the awesome beasts, he had nothing but scorn for the Men whom he fought alongside. To be inferior to anything was unbearable, and so Gorlâk fought his way to power, until he became a fearsome and deadly warrior amongst the Orcs. He served others only because he had to, and it was his most powerful desire to be lord of all things that walked Middle-Earth, unopposed by any, even -he scarcely dared dream of it- the Lidless Eye. The dark-skinned Southrons willingly enthralled themselves to another, and for that Gorlâk both despised and scorned them.

To be powerful was everything. To be slave, even to one as great and terrible as his own Master, was worse than death.

The two Men huddled by the Mûmak were not the dark-skinned allies of the Orcs, but they straw-haired horsemen who came from the North, fearsome warriors with fire in their eyes and death on their blades. One kneeled by the other, who lay on the ground, hurt but alive. The corpses of several Orcs lay nearby, and there was blood on the blade of the kneeling North-Man's sword. Gorlâk watched, puzzled, as the kneeling Man, who appeared younger, gave the other a draft from his wineskin.

What motivated these weak, backward creatures to act so completely against their natures? The other Man was weak, defenseless. He should die, and his slayer would receive the spoils of victory. The other Man should kill his wounded comrade, and claim his weapons, his possessions, and his mate for himself. To do otherwise was weakness. That was why the Orcs were superior. That was why the other races were doomed.

A groan interrupted his brooding, and he snapped his head in its direction. A Man, this one of the dark-skinned race, lay in a puddle of mud, his legs horribly mutilated by a series of long, jagged gashes. The strange headdress which typically covered the Southron's face had come undone, and he lay on the battleground, moaning in pain.

A terrifying facsimile of a smile crossed Gorlâk's scarred face. He was not one of the weak race of Man. He was an Orc, bred and born for battle! He knew how to kill. He had shed blood already today, many times over; now he would do it again.

He stalked toward the wounded Man, grinning savagely. To his credit, the Man did not scream when Gorlâk kneeled over him, wickedly curved knife in hand. He merely shrank back into the mud, as far as he could. Gorlâk could smell the fear on him, and the scent was driving him half-mad with the anticipation of bloodshed. He bared his teeth, yellow fangs dripping saliva. The man began to whimper.

"Agh, maggot!" a voice, deep and gravelly, called. Gorlâk stood, turning about to face the speaker.

Another Orc, hideously fat, stood several feet away from Gorlâk. One of his hands was gone, chopped off above the elbow. In his remaining hand he held a long, iron-tipped spear. He scowled at Gorlâk, squinting his red eyes.

"Find yer own kill, scum! That 'un's mine!!"

"Not anymore," Gorlâk snarled, brandishing his knife. "He's mine now. Back off, fatty!"

The other Orc roared, and charged at him. Gorlâk sidestepped his attack, but barely; the Orc clipped him on the shoulder, sending him stumbling. He recovered quickly, and turned to face his attacker.

The fat Orc now stood between him and his prey. He thrust his spear at Gorlâk, feinting. Gorlâk was smaller than the average Orc, and faster, but this one was huge, and had greater reach. With the spear, he could easily keep Gorlâk at bay until he tired out, then finish him off with a killing blow.

As the fat Orc thrust his spear at Gorlâk again, Gorlâk feinted to the left, and then moved swiftly to the right. before his opponent could react, he dashed forward, swinging through the air. He brought the blade down on the other Orc's good hand, severing it at the wrist. The now-handless Orc roared in pain, only to be silenced forever as Gorlâk severed his head from his shoulders.

The fat Orc's body slumped to the ground. Gorlâk walked back to the wounded Man, pausing only to retrieve the fallen Orc's spear. The man stared up at him, fear in his eyes as he realized Gorlâk's intentions.

"Wait!" he cried out, in heavily accented Westron, "Why are you doing this? I thought we were on the same side!"

"You thought wrong," Gorlâk snarled, examining the spear tip. It was sharp enough to pierce armor, but pitted and rusty. Perfect.

"Now," Gorlâk grinned, raising the spear above his head, "Let's see how many holes I can put in you."

He brought the spear down. The man screamed.

"One."

He withdrew the spear, then raised it again, brought it down again.

"Two."

Blood flowed from the man, mingling with the muddy filth of the battlefield.

--

…Only one more chapter left…

--

**Ellyn**: Sorry it took so long. Now that I've gotten past Gorlâk, the rest should come easily. Although I'm not sure there is anything to like about Gorlâk at all.

**Calenlass** **Greenleaf1**: Yeah, Léofric would have been very interesting to watch. I like him. :-)

**Virtuella**: The meditative aspect is somewhat unavoidable for this piece; I have to write a vignette for each character as they fight, showing their thoughts and feelings, so it ends up being much more slow-motion than a typical fight scene. And "Niggles"?


	6. Chapter 6: End of the Game

A/N: I'm so, so sorry it took this long to update. My life has taken several unexpected twists since I last wrote, some incredibly wonderful, and one life-shattering and heartbreaking.

I'd like to dedicate this story to my dad. As great a soldier, patriot, husband, and father as any character ever to grace Tolkien's pages, Steve Moore set sail for the Undying Lands on March 1, 2009. I love you, Dad.

Chapter Six: End of the Game

The sounds of battle -screams of pain, of rage, of terror- pierced the clear morning air. Haytham heard none of these. He stood, a man transfixed, his eyes on the blood-reddened blade of his saber. Neither Man nor Orc took notice of him; a lone soldier who stood still and unmoving was no threat to anyone. His gaze ran up and down the length of the blade, from the hilt, a dull, pitted steel gray, to the tip, scarlet with blood.

_That blood is not mine. That blood came from that man, who is now lying face up, his strange blue eyes staring unseeingly at the sky. That is the blood of the man I have killed._

The men of Ghâlib's army had spoken of the Northmen in voices of mixed hatred and fear. How they ate babies; how their hair was colored brown and gold and green and every other color imaginable; how they sacrificed their children to their Horse-gods each year; how their massive fortress, the hated White Tower, was carved out of the very mountains and how its mortar was mixed with the blood of the Men of Harad. These tales had half fascinated and half terrified young Haytham, but when questioned, his uncle would not give him an answer.

"I have never seen a Northman in all my life, Nephew," he would shrug, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "and neither have many of the men with us. How do they know what the Northmen look like or how they act, they who have never laid eyes upon them?"

This bit of knowledge had seemed infinitely wise to Haytham. But now, he realized, as his gaze traveled from the sword to the dead Northman, they had all been wrong. This man's hair was golden, yes, and slowly fading to grey, but it was the most beautiful color Haytham had ever seen. He had looked different than the dark peoples of the South Haytham had been raised by, but he was still just a man.

Yes, he was a Man. The soldiers of Ghâlib's army had whispered fearsome tales of the strange Men of the northern countries, painting them as bogeymen who crept in the night to steal children from their beds, or as evil, tyrannical warlords who conquered all in their path, and whose eyes, ever hungering for new land, gazed with lust at the dunes and savannahs of the South. But this man was no monster, no dictator. He was a warrior serving his king, just as Haytham himself was.

_Uncle,_ Haytham thought, _you didn't tell me it would feel this way. _

But had he known? Khalid had always avoided the question of whether or not he had ever killed another man. Had he? Had he known how it had felt to end the life of another, to make him draw his last breath, to stare into his eyes until the life faded from them?

It made Haytham sick to think of what he had done, and sicker still to think that he may have to do it again.

_Killing this man…as though he were no more than a mindless beast…or…_

…_or…_

…_or an Orc…_

Haytham could hear the screams, now, deafening in the air, punctuated by the clashing sound of steel on steel, the thundering of hoof beats, and the occasional horn of some king or lord. And what he heard was the screams of dying men, and the barbaric, feral snarls of the Orcs, who rushed toward their enemies like carrion birds to a slaughter, and a slaughter it was.

Haytham broke free from his trance, and looked up to the sky. He wiped the blood from his sword-blade, and raised it to the heavens. There was a strange light in his eyes, a grim and fearsome light that would have sent shivers down the spines of mighty lords and would have made lesser men quail. A warm breeze blew from the South.

_Uncle,_ he prayed once more, guide my blade. _I will greet you in your halls not as a coward, but as a warrior._

With that, he stepped forward, into the fray. There was a battle to be fought.

--

Sweat stained Léofric's brow as he brought his sword down on the arm of an Orc, severing it. The creature hissed in pain and then was silenced forevermore as Léofric's blade lopped its head from its shoulders. _Eight,_ he thought.

Ardhelm was wounded but alive; pierced through the side by an Orc-spear, he sat with his back against the dead _Mûmak_, fighting off Orcs as best he could with his Rider's shortbow. He and Léofric were surrounded by Orcs; though they had killed many together, more kept coming. They could not hold them off forever; they knew that. And so with the grim resolve of doomed men, they vowed to send as many of the Morgul-filth into the Void as they could before they succumbed.

"I'm out of arrows," Ardhelm called. Léofric nodded, teeth clenched.

"Do you still have your horn?" he asked, thrusting at the nearest Orc. Ardhelm nodded.

"Use it!"

Ardhelm took out his horn and blew a long, loud note, which heartened the two Men and gave the Orcs pause. Léofric took advantage of this by dispatching his current opponent.

_Nine_, he thought.

Léofric grinned fiercely, the light of battle shining in his eyes. He uttered a wordless battle-cry, daring the next Orc to try its luck.

--

"For Gondor!"

Thus went the cry that split the early morning air as Artharion and his men charged through the rubble of the White City's once-proud gates. The sun had barely risen over the dark mountains to the east, and all about them was carnage and bloodshed. The dying groans of Men mingled with the last screams of Orcs and horses. The air stank of blood and filth, and the clouds were red. Though the battle still raged, they were on the outskirts, and here there were only dying soldiers and those too wounded to fight.

Artharion's small band of warriors made their way across the wreckage, dispatching wounded Orcs as they did so and providing what little comfort they could to wounded Men. One of these was a young man, barely older than any of Artharion's children, who shared the same fair hair as his youngest son, Éthil.

_I never said farewell to Caundaer, _Artharion thought, his mind going to his eldest son. They had been separated early on in the battle, and he knew not whether Caundaer was dead or still living.

This thought grieved him deeply. _What sort of man am I, if I have not said my good-byes to my son before he or I should perish? I never told him how proud I am of him. I wish I could now. _

His reverie was broken by the sound of a horn blowing nearby. Near the colossal corpse of a dead _Mûmak_ he saw a pair of Rohirrim fighting valiantly against what must have been a dozen Orcs. One was wounded, and sat on the ground against the corpse, blowing fiercely on a hunting-horn. The other fought skillfully with a sword, and bore an ugly scar on his forehead.

The Men of Rohan had long been friends of Gondor, and in the White City's hour of need they had come to her aid. Artharion would not let these courageous Men die on this field, not while he could save them.

He lifted Túrrív, shining brightly in the morning sunlight, and broke out at a run, shouting his battle-cry as he did so.

_"Gondor!!!!"_

--

Gorlâk snarled and shoved another Orc to the ground, striding towards the horse-warrior with the scar on his head. The filthy Straw-head had held off an entire squad of Orcs, but Gorlâk knew that this was due in part to his fellows' cowardice. He despised the fearful nature of his own kind; they cowered under the whips of their masters, and their wills were easily broken. Not so with Gorlâk. He feared neither Man nor beast nor Orc. Nothing that walked under the sun or crept in dark places held any terror for him, except perhaps the Eye. He was a killer unparalleled in his skill, the pinnacle of what it meant to be an Orc.

To see so many of his race slain by a pathetic _Man_ sickened him. They were stronger, faster, unburdened by the foolish desire to aid one another. They deserved to rule. No Man would stand against him.

He stood facing the warrior, spear in one hand, blade in the other. There was a pause as the two warriors regarded each other, and then the battle began.

They closed to striking distance at the same time, the sound of ringing metal splitting the air as they locked blades. Gorlâk thrust the spear-point at the Rider, but he dodged it and parried the sword-blow the Orc had tried to bring down on him. The Rider lunged forward in a leaping slash, but Gorlâk rolled to the side, barely avoiding the blow. He retaliated with a brutal flurry of blows, but the Rider somehow managed to hold him off.

A sharp flash of pain hit Gorlâk as, without warning, the Rider's sword flicked out and severed Gorlâk's ear. The Orc hissed in rage and surprised pain, his yellow eyes narrowing with hate. He stepped forward and, heedless of the Rider's sword, thrust his spear into the Man's leg. The Rider fell to one knee, blood streaming from the wound.

"Now," he grinned, broken teeth filling his terrifying maw, "the fun begins."

--

An Orc stood over the fallen Rider, ready to finish him. Artharion broke into a flat-out sprint, determined to reach the valiant warrior in time to save him. He collided full-force into the Orc, driving both of them to the ground. The Orc rolled over, its claws closing about Artharion's throat, malice in its yellow eyes. Artharion punched it, forcing it back, and rolled over, pinning it beneath him. He reached for his knife, but the creature was too fast; it brought its feet up and kicked him in the chest, forcing him backwards and onto the ground. Before Artharion could react, the Orc drove its sword _through_ Artharion's chest, pinning him to the ground.

"You little swine," it snarled, "I'm going to kill you good an' slow for that!"

Then a sword-tip, stained red with blood, burst through the Orc's chest.

--

Haytham pulled his sword out of Gorlâk's back. It gurgled once in disbelief, looking down at the gaping hole where its black heart was ruined, and then toppled over, life fading from its yellow eyes. He kneeled beside the dying Gondorian, compassion and concern in his dark eyes. He spoke, in what little Westron he knew.

"Can I help you?"

The Man shook his head, and gasped with pain.

"Thank you. It's...too late for that." He grimaced as blood seeped from his breast. "Help the Horseman."

"I'm fine," came a voice from behind Artharion.

Léofric hobbled over, the spear-shaft still protruding from his leg. He gazed down at the dying Gondorian. The pain in his blue eyes had nothing to do with his wounded leg.

"You saved me," he said. "Thank you. Is there anything I can do?"

"No," Artharion gasped, a bubble of blood bursting from his mouth as he struggled to speak. "My time has come. I am...my name is Artharion of Minas Tirith. Tell my wife that I love her. Tell my children not to grieve, for I would not have died any other way."

The light began to fade from his eyes.

"And...tell my eldest son...to take my sword. His life is his own."

And with that Artharion, soldier, father, husband, Man of Gondor, passed into the Undying Lands.

--

The battle was over. The Orcs surrounding Léofric and Ardhelm had been routed by Artharion's reinforcements, and both Rohirrim would survive their wounds. The soldiers stood in a circle around their fallen leader, paying their silent respects. Ardhelm stood supported by Cammir. Haytham helped Léofric to stand.

"You saved him," Léofric murmured, turning to look Haytham in the eyes. "He was on the other side, but you tried to save him. Why?"

The young Southron met his gaze steadily, looking years older than when he had first set foot upon the battlefields of Pelennor.

"He was not my enemy. He was a Man. A brave one." He swallowed.

"My people...I...have been fighting the wrong war. I killed a man today. A Rider, like you. I had never seen him in my life before today, and I killed him. Men like that...like you...like him..."

He gestured at the body of Artharion, who now looked peaceful.

"...we are not enemies. We should not be enemies. We are brother Men. _That_..."

He pointed in disgust at the corpse of Gorlâk.

"..._that_ is our enemy."

Léofric nodded thoughtfully, his eyes distant. He held out a hand to the young Haradrim.

"Do you have a name, Southron?"

"Haytham," the other smiled, taking his hand.

"I am Léofric," he said, and they clasped hands over the body of a fallen hero as the sun shone on a new age in Middle-Earth.

--

It's done.

Finally, this story is finished. I'd like to thank you all for reading it; your comments gave me the drive to finish this story. I will miss sitting down at my computer and getting into the heads of Haytham, Artharion, Léofric, and yes, even Gorlâk. Until our next journey together, farewell!!


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